


A New Conversation, Level Six: Medley

by Spadesjade



Series: Tom and Michelle [8]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Rambling plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesjade/pseuds/Spadesjade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michelle is in London. Takes place before and after the last installment, Road Trip. She and Tom bake, cook, make origami, and talk about things that need to be talked about. And Michelle tells Tom a bedtime story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A New Conversation, Level Six: Medley

**Author's Note:**

> warning: this rambles, and goes into super saccharine territory. You might have to get checked for cavities when it's over. I made myself slightly nauseous writing it, but my very good friend Lettalady said it was very real. So I went with it.

In Santa Monica, there is a store called Ye Old King's Head, just off the main promenade, where all the tourists like to visit. It's a pub on one side, and a little store that holds all kinds of British goods on the other. From there I had purchased tarts, chocolate hobnobs, and various kinds of tea, when in the area. I had enjoyed diverse candy bars not available in the regular market, and even picked up the occasional jar of clotted cream, when a recipe called for it.

Being in Britain itself, and shopping at the Tesco, was a completely different experience. Ultimately, it wasn't hard to find all the items I needed, but it didn't stop me from playing damsel in distress and keeping Tom close to help me figure out which names translated to familiar products.

Not that I could have peeled him off me with a potato peeler.

"What are we having for dinner?" I asked him. "Any plans?"

"I was going to ask you. We were out rather late, we may be too tired for anyplace tonight, but definitely tomorrow. We could get some take-out."

"No, I want to cook, if we're staying in."

Tom gave me a bashful grin. "I was hoping you'd say that. So what did you have in mind?"

"Chicken pot pie? But not like that...I saw this recipe where you can use Pillsbury dough croissants and make it like a ring. The filling is easy, but I'm not that great when it comes to dough."

We were able to find all the ingredients I wanted to make the filling, and Tom showed me roughly the equivalent to the croissants I needed, so we headed back to his place.

"You're starting now?" he asked as I lined up the chicken, vegetables, and other various ingredients on the counter. 

"You have to slow cook the chicken. Do you have a crock pot or anything?"

"I'm afraid not..."

"No worries, I'll just put them in the oven at low heat. It'll take as long." I filled a casserole dish with the raw chicken, which I had given a bath in the honey I'd picked up, and the carrots and broccoli, and put it in the oven at a very low heat of less than 200 degrees. 

"Do you have a thing for peas?" I asked him as he got out the tart dish he'd bought specifically for me to use.

"Peas? You mean the little green round things?"

"The very same."

He shrugged. "I...am not particularly inclined either way. If they're there, I'll eat them."

"Okay, I'm leaving them out. I know peas are some kind of staple of chicken pot pie, but I hate them."

Tom chuckled. "Didn't your parents make you eat all your peas and carrots growing up?"

"My parents had a strict code of never making me eat anything I didn't want to. Now we have to grind up the chocolate cookies for the crust, do you have a food processor or something? If not I'll put them in a plastic baggie and we can crush them with a plate or something."

It turned out he did have a small one stashed away -- one of his sisters had given it to him as a housewarming gift a long time ago, but the thing was perfect for my purposes. Once the crust was made and lying in the tart dish, it was time to deal with the caramel.

Tom stirred together the cream, brown sugar and butter in a pot on the stove, at my instruction. "So do we start the timer from when it begins to boil, or--" he asked, gracing me with that eyebrow of his raised in question. 

"Hang on," I said, bringing my phone over with the stopwatch ready. "I'll hit it when it's time. The whole thing has to be on a full boil. It has a particular look."

The edges started to bubble, and Tom kept stirring. He looked anxious -- I couldn't blame him, I'd been the same way the first time I'd made caramel. 

"If we screw it up we can always do it again," I reassured him. "We have enough."

Tom kept watching the swirling dark golden concoction that was neither a liquid nor a solid at this point. And then it seemed like the whole thing suddenly got three shades lighter as it started to bubble, looking a bit like spinning sugar. 

"Now," I said, hitting the timer. "Stop stirring."

He pulled the spatula out, and the whole pot seemed to turn into golden foam. We both watched it for the whole two minutes, and when my timer went off, he cut the heat, and it seemed like all the air suddenly left the thing.

"Now?" he asked.

"Let it cool," I said. "Two or three hours. Just like the chicken, actually." I had an alarm for both of them now, on my phone. "We can go take a break. I'm starting to get pretty tired."

"It's barely noon," he teased, and I took a little swipe at him.

"Silly man! I've been up since noon YESTERDAY."

"Well, don't get too comfortable on the couch," he said, taking my hand and leading me into his living room. "You can't fall asleep. In fact, you're going to have to forego sleep pretty much for the next two weeks."

"Oh, please do not start singing that Aerosmith song again ," I begged. Within minutes I was tucked against his chest, him lying on the couch with his legs splayed on either side of me. It was a rather intimate position -- I had grown comfortable with it as long as we could maintain it and not get any *more* intimate. Both of his arms were wrapped around me hard at first, and we just reveled in each other -- moments like this were precious and few with our separation. 

I managed to turn my head so that I was gazing up at him, his beautiful face upside-down in my vision. I raised one arm and ran it through his upside-down curls, down the back of his head to the nape of his neck. 

"I love you, you know," I sighed.

"I did guess," he teased. "I mean, you came all the way here from L.A. just to see me on a stage."

"Lots of your fans would do that," I sighed. 

"Mmm...until they figure out a way to clone me, you are the lucky winner."

I gave his ribs a pinch. "Oh, some winner."

"Hey, I have been a prince bloody charming with you," he retorted, but I was smiling.

"You have. I'm just busting your balls."

"Lovely idioms you American's have."

"Oh, let's not compare...or shall we? Might keep me awake."

He replied by running his fingers from the hollow of my throat, up the front of my neck, and to my throat and chin, causing me to shiver against his chest. "I can think of a few other ways."

"Hey now..."

"Relax, darling." Although he did give a deep sigh as he turned. "I've been looking at this script. Something is throwing me off...I love the character but I cannot completely commit, and my agency is starting to rip out their collective hair over it."

"Read it to me," I purred.

"Then you'll definitely fall asleep," he said with a wink.

I didn't...for a while. Tom was an excellent story teller, so he was able to get the gist of the story conveyed to me without having to read the whole thing. There were a few of his potential character's monologues that he did read out loud, and we picked through some of the wording, and I asked him questions, but after awhile my eyelids got so heavy that they wound up drifting shut of their own accord.

It was an hour later when I woke up. Somehow I had rolled and my face was pressed into the crook of Tom's elbow. A line of drool had somehow made it down his forearm, which I was vaguely aware of but couldn't bring myself to get too upset about.

Mostly because I was caught in that delicious moment between sleep and awake. That Peter-Pan moment where dreams are still present and reality is not quite real, but everything is solid and fluid enough, and I always feel like I'm floating.

I heard Tom's voice, in a whisper. I felt his fingers combing my hair, freshly dry from my shower and mildly curling as it does. His arm pressed more firmly around me, further serving to drag me into the reality side of that midway state.

The whisper of his voice was saying, over and over, "I can't. I just can't."

Finally, I managed to get my hand under me, which was mildly asleep from where I'd shoved it under my chin, and wipe the drool off his arm. He felt the movement and shifted. "You awake?"

"Mmmmm....how long?"

"Only an hour. Your timer still has about fifteen minutes to go." His fingers resumed their combing. That part I hadn't imagined.

I wanted to ask him. Those words, "I can't," just twirled around my brain. Paranoia threatened, but reason and trust, which had gained a bit of a stronger hold in the months I'd been with him, told me not to panic. I may not have heard it at all. And can't what? It could be anything. 

Anything.

\-------------------

We had poured the dark golden caramel, much more brown than most because it was made of brown sugar and not white, on top of the cookie crust, and it had firmed up considerably in the fridge. Next step was the melted chocolate.

Tom boiled the heavy cream on the stove, and poured it over the chocolate chips while I stirred. The ganache was beautiful and rich and dark, and a tiny bit thick, as I didn't want it runny at all. However, this mean more work when pouring it over the caramel, as the weight of it could sometimes dislodge the surface of the caramel and cause a heavy dip. We drizzled at first, trying to spread it as much as possible, and then I took a spatula to it to spread while Tom used another spatula to scrape the gooey chocolate goodness from the bowl.

He offered the spatula to me when was done. I reached to take it, but he pulled it back.

"You know you want to," he said, his voice almost a dare.

I stuck out my tongue and licked the spatula. Tom gave a little groan and then pulled it away. 

"That one bit you in the ass, didn't it," I teased.

He just shook his head, his cheeks flaming. But it didn't stop him from cleaning off the rest of the spatula with his own tongue, and I had to make myself look away. I busied myself getting the pecans across the top of the tart, and then set it in the fridge. When I turned back to him, he seemed to gave gathered himself again.

"I think we need to talk about this," I said.

Tom looked mildly panicked, but at my calm demeanor, he motioned toward the small table and chairs in his kitchen. "What did you have in mind?"

I sighed. We'd already talked about this, but only once. I hated to think it was a taboo subject, and already I felt tension descend between us, but it had to happen.

"Are you going to be okay, with this?" I asked him, gesturing between us.

"I am going to assume you're talking about the no-sex thing," he replied.

"Well, yeah. Tom, I hate feeling like I'm torturing you."

Tom frowned, shrugged, shook his head. "It's not like...I mean, come on, what kind of man would I be if our relationship was conditional on you being willing to have sex with me? Sure, it's new for me, and it's not easy, and sometimes I feel like I'm going mad---"

"I am too, you know."

"I know. That's why I try to...well, usually I try to not let things go that way."

"Like when I walked in on you in a towel. And you not showing me your bedroom."

He shrugged again. "Am I being too meticulous?"

"A bit inconsistent, with that spatula thing, but that's...well, so am I. But that's how it's going to be, you know. I mean, I'm not made of iron or steel or marble. My resolution was a hell of a lot easier when all I was resisting was the urge to masturbate--"

Tom's eyes widened just a touch. "You don't even do that?"

"So far I've been able to resist." I wanted to ask him about himself but felt that wasn't any of my business. "Some days are harder than others. And with you...Tom, I do want you. So much. But I can't keep going with this idea that I'm forcing you to do something against your will. That isn't going to work."

Tom was silent for several long moments as he rubbed his fingers against his lips, a gesture that clearly told me he was thinking. He looked away from me, and I waited, trying to sort what was going on in my own head. 

I knew I was a rare individual. I had the kind of will that so far had been strengthened enough by grace to keep me from crossing that line. And now I had another human being to consider. I felt...selfish. It was irrational to a certain extent, but I did. I didn't feel pressured to have sex with him -- it wasn't like "do it or he'll leave." Tom had made it clear he was with me for all sorts of reasons, and that he loved me. Sex was going to be an extension of love. But I wanted to go all the way -- all the way to marriage. I wanted that wedding night, that first time between us to mean something that was going extinct in this world. And that "M" word hadn't even come up yet. And to make things even more confusing, if I even thought about it, I had an odd feeling of panic.

So in a sense I felt like I was holding him hostage.

I couldn't make him believe in the same things I did. I had watched friends and family go through enough bad relationships to understand that one had to accept one's partner *exactly as they were.* One had to be sure that was possible, or the relationship was doomed before it got off the ground.

"Michelle," Tom finally said, and I wasn't sure if I was relieved or terrified -- or both. "I knew this about you before we even got together. Maybe the fact that we were both teenagers at the time sort of shifts that focus a bit, but I wasn't surprised when you told me. And if it had been a deal-breaker, I would have said so."

"Really?" I felt a bit skeptical. "I mean, you would never have said, you have to have sex with me or I'm going to leave. Even if it was true."

Tom shrugged. Again. "It would be just as wrong for me to force you."

"Implying it's wrong for me to force you." I didn't mean to sound defensive. I tried not to sound defensive. But the mere existence of the words was defensive. 

"Either way, we're at an impasse. One of us had to give. And I decided it was going to be me."

"You decided."

"Yes. I decided I was going to do this with you. It was a sacrifice I decided to make for you." He reached for my hands, pulling me closer. "But that's part of the deal, isn't it? Love is sacrifice as well as physical affection."

I know he was trying to make me feel better. It made me feel...worse. What had I sacrificed for him? I couldn't think of anything...

"Don't," he said in that Tone, the Tone that usually made me instantly straighten my spine like a school girl in the presence of the principal. "Don't doubt yourself, Michelle. I don't doubt you. You made a sacrifice for me when we went public. Admittedly, we've been shielded from the worst of it, and I know every day you resist the urge to find out what they're saying about us, and the day will come when you will feel it. We've been fortunate, but we didn't know that at the time. And it could change overnight. But it didn't stop you. For me, you were willing to give."

I shifted, my hands still in his. I considered how what I was going to say would sound. "Tom, it is a little different," I said.

"How?"

"Going public isn't something we can take back," I pointed out. "And ultimately, we don't even have to deal with it if we don't choose to. We can shut it out. This isn't something we can shut out. I can get weak. You can get weak. Temptation is a real thing and it can overcome us. I've always been committed to this, but for you...I just fear it turning into resentment."

"And I don't fear you resenting me for the loss of your privacy? For risking the paps showing up at your work? Your apartment?"

"You didn't cause those things. Not directly. This is direct. Tom, this can't be a sacrifice you're 'willing to make.' It doesn't work like that. If I changed my mind right now and said, okay, let's do it, I'm ready, you would throw me over your shoulder and head into the bedroom." I let go of his hands at the cheeky look that flittered across his face. I wasn't angry, but I had to make him see.

"I don't know," I breathed. "I guess I can't explain it to you, not if you don't already..." I trialed off, knowing any way of ending that sentence would be disastrous. 

"I'm...sorry," Tom tried, and I could tell he was wondering if he'd done something wrong.

"No, don't be," I said, reaching forward to brush some curls from his forehead. I smiled at him. "Just please, remember...I'm not trying to keep something from you. I'm just waiting. Please try and remember that."

He nodded, but his smile was unsure. 

\----------------------------

The tart was done, and the chicken pot pie crescent ring was baking in the oven. Tom had gotten a phone call from his agency and had to take it. 

I sat in his living room, my eyes restlessly roving over the various articles sitting on his coffee table -- books, papers, a few pens and pencils, and some post its, in a neat, multi-colored stack.

When Tom came back, I had assembled eight of the post it notes, in green and yellow, into a transforming origami ninja-star. Which I was rolling in my fingers aimlessly, not even really paying attention, it had just been something to do with my fidgety fingers while trying not to fret over potential potholes in my relationship. 

"What is that?" Tom asked, pointing. He then put his hand out to take it. I set the ninja-star in his hand.

"Transforming origami ninja-star," I said. 

"Transforming?" I nodded, stood up, pulling the interlocking parts away from the center and showed him how it transformed into a ring. Then I pushed the ends of the ring back together and the eight "blades" all appeared, making the star-shape. 

Tom practically gawped at the thing. "And you just do this kind of thing casually--"

"With post it notes," I said, pointing. "I used green and yellow for Loki." I gave him a goofy grin. Then I shrugged. "I was bored."

He continued to stare at me as if I was suddenly going to transform. "Any other hidden talents I should know about?"

"Well, that's a loaded question, isn't it?" I sighed, stretching. "God I'm starving...the timer should be going off any minute now, right?" I reached for my phone to check.

"Can you make anything else?" Tom asked, still twirling the star in his fingers. 

"A few things," I murmured. "A lily. I can do the crane. I can do a cube. Anything else, I'd probably have to look it up."

"Just another holdover from your younger days," Tom said, but in a tone implying that he didn't buy it. "Like learning to cook."

"Look, my dad wanted me to be well rounded," I said. "Mom was pushing and indulging my scientific side so hard -- Dad wanted me to have creative outlets. And I didn't want to draw or write, so alternatives were sought. Origami and cooking were two of my favorites."

Tom pressed the center of the star between his index finger and thumb and twirled it. He attempted to turn it into the ring, and with a bit of prodding was soon able to do it without any help from me. 

"Can you show me how to make one?" he asked, scraping the edges of the blades against his fingertips.

"Sure," and then the alarm on my phone went off, "right after we eat."

I admit I wolfed down almost half of the pot pie ring. Tom nearly finished the other half. The late afternoon was passed with me showing him different origami, until the table was littered with my completed ones, some that were Tom's discards, and the rather shaky ones that he managed to finish. He did very well with the ring, making very precise and sharp folds, but the squash and reverse folds needed for the crane and the lily were a bit harder. Paper kept tearing and whenever it did, he insisted on starting over. I told him it was normal for the paper to tear, it wasn't the end of the world, but his inner perfectionist reared its head and I had to give. 

"There!" he exclaimed triumphantly when the lily's perfect petals were curled back and the inner part of the flower made a precise box shape. 

"It's beautiful," I said, reaching for it, but he yanked it from my grasp.

"Oh, no, Ms. Its-okay-if-its-ripped," he mocked. "You're not manhandling this." He set the paper flower on a nearby bookshelf. "There. Even matches the books."

I rolled my eyes. "The crane is easier." I stretched, realizing the time. We'd been at this for a few hours. "Unless you want to do something else."

Tom clapped his hands. "Yes, well, I did have something in mind. I was thinking tomorrow we should drive up to Cornwall."

"Isn't that a bit far away?" I asked.

"Five hours or so. We'll do a day trip. I know it's a long drive, but I haven't had much time in my Jag these last months and I wanted to...." He trailed off with a chuckle.

"Show off?" I asked with a sweet smile.

"Yes."

"Sounds fun. But I warn you, I fall asleep in cars."

"Fine," he shrugged. 

"So that's for tomorrow," I pointed out. 

"Well, we'll need an early start, so..."

"Are you kicking me out? It's barely past seven!"

"Oh, no, but we will be calling it an early night, since both of us are highly sleep deprived."

"Not me, I took a nap."

"Then you can pick the movie, since you'll probably stay awake through it."

\----------------------

I did wind up staying awake for the movie, with Tom's head on my lap as he dozed. When it was over I called a cab to take me back to my hotel, although Tom wanted to take me back. I insisted on tucking him into bed, and told him if he didn't cooperate, I would manhandle his pretty new origami lily, and he would be too tired to stop me. He gave in when I promised to read him a bedtime story.

"You're going to read me a story?"

I flipped through my phone. I'd had a dozen story apps loaded up on my phone since my niece was born, as she loved the little interactive pieces and would play with them every chance she got. "Sure, you like princess stories, right?"

He chuckled. "I'd rather you make up a story."

I snorted. "You are overestimating my creative abilities."

"I'll help...once upon a time...."

"Once upon a time," I sighed, and then smiled, an idea coming to me. "Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a little box, all by herself."

"Let me guess, a prince came to rescue her," Tom joked.

"Nope, she liked her box. Although she did like the prince, too, and decided to come out of the box to see if the prince liked her back."

I was kneeling at his bedside, my elbows on the mattress, and Tom was turned to face me. He traced his fingers along one elbow, to the inside of my arm. 

"And did he?"

I shrugged. "What the hell does a prince know? He barely knew his crown from his ass."

Tom gave his little chuckle. "I'm sure he did. How could he not? A brave princess--"

"I never said she was a princess," I clarified. "I said she was a girl. A girl in a box."

"A long lost princess?" Tom asked.

I shook my head. "A lowly peasant who had to work to keep herself. In her little box."

"Well, still, that's something to be admired," Tom said, yawning. 

"There were a lot of girls in boxes, doing just what she did. She was nothing special."

Tom gave a little snort. "Everyone has something special about them. Everyone. Besides, the prince wasn't so much, I'm quite sure."

"Well, he was very handsome. And charming."

He snorted again. "Princes always are. Doesn't mean much. An arrangement of features, an accident of good breeding."

"Then maybe the girl was shallow."

"The girl wasn't shallow," Tom reassured her.

"Who's telling this story? You or me?"

"I felt it was rather a joint effort--"

"You're supposed to be going to sleep, Tom." I started to get up.

"You didn't finish my story!" he protested.

"What finish? Stories don't finish." I bent over, kissed his forehead. "But if it makes you feel better, yes, the prince did like the girl. Although it took a long time for both of them to figure it out, because they both sucked at communicating. But once they did, the girl got out of her box, and she didn't want to go back."

Tom grasped my hand as I rose to my full height. "And did she come away with him and live in his palace across the sea?"

"She visited. And taught him how to make folding paper art."

This time he beamed up at me. "See? I told you there was something special about her."

\------------------  
\------------------

After coming back from Cornwall extremely late, I slept in the next morning. After my repeated replies of "just a little while longer," Tom apparently couldn't take it anymore, and I heard the sound of paper sliding under the door around nine-thirty. 

Knowing I was awake and that there was little point in lounging around in bed, especially when I had limited time with a very handsome British man, I dragged myself from the bed and scuffled over to the hotel room door to find an envelope sitting on the floor.

I picked it up, and instantly caught the rich smell that wafted up. That man had sprayed his cologne on it. I wrinkled my nose in an insane kind of glee and utter hilarity, that he was capable of such ridiculous and romantic things. 

Reluctant to mar the envelope in any way, I tried to figure out how to get it open without tearing it, when I realized he hadn't sealed it. The flap had merely been tucked under, and inside were two thick sheets of very nice stationary, everything in a soft color of champagne. His script, which was not quite so familiar to me in this day and age of texting and emails, was neatly written, although had something of the hasty about it, how some of his T's weren't crossed, eyes not dotted. 

*My beautiful Hummingbird,

You keep me waiting after such an emotional day. Although I know things yesterday must have exhausted you, and they've done for me as well, truthfully. I want you to know my past, my story, all of it. No ugly details spared. I want no secrets. But I know I have not been anything remotely resembling a saint, and you, of your own admission, have had little to do with the rougher sex. I feel tarnished, at times, when I compare myself to you. I know you would argue with me. I know how you look at me, how your eyes light up, how you bite your lip, how you squirm just so when I press you a bit too close. Please don't think me arrogant when I say I can feel the affect I have on you. But I think you are woefully uneducated about the affect you have on me.

Do not think for one moment, my lovely Michelle, that I don't desire you. I could express your beauty in words but I fear the result. We men are accused so often of being shallow and only adoring the shell without thinking much of the person inside, and I strive not to fall into that category. There is so much beauty inside of you, in your humor, your gentleness, your wisdom, and your keen intelligence, that it makes you glow. And yes, indulge me and do not roll your eyes when I pay homage to my love. It's disrespectful.

The truth is that you have lived a purer life than I have. I admit to giving in to many temptations. Even after learning harsh lessons, they must be repeated, it seems. And I never wish to see in your face what I saw yesterday -- your disappointment in me. How that fire that burned with such admiration and wonder whenever you looked at me was dimmed. Maybe I am arrogant to say how much that look means to me. How many audiences I've heard applaud my work, fans describe me in such overblown imagery, and yet only your look makes me truly feel like I deserve any of it. How your cheeks are reddening I can but imagine, but it is true. Do not shake your head. It is true. 

Before you, Michelle, I was near to giving up. I know we are both still very young, although it doesn't feel like it, but how can one expect to live up to an image? A mirage? People calling me a god, when I merely play one, and not even a real one. Who can have any reasonable expectations of that? But I do not mean to complain, just to make you see how I had backed myself into a corner. I try to tell them all I am just like them but it all falls on deaf ears. You listened. You knew before I declared myself to you. You felt that way before all the rest of it came. You don't treat me like some unreachable object on a pedestal, although I know you came dangerously close toward the beginning. And yet you still make me truly feel more worthy, just for being the object of your affection. 

So I look back on my words and feel my love letter has turned into more of a bewailment of my trials rather than an outpouring of my tenderness for you. You just have no idea the difference your presence in my life is making for me. Perhaps I am risking putting you on a pedestal. I am afraid of you looking down on me from it. But I also trust you, I know I can trust you, to be compassionate to me, your tarnished Prince Charming, who wants a chance for a full life with you in spite of the dents in his armor, most of them caused by his own clumsiness and bad choices. Perhaps you're afraid I shall dent them further, or worse, harm you in the process. But I feel so much stronger now, and so much more repulsed by my past behavior, that I am sure the shame of making myself unworthy of you would make any shallow pleasure, no matter how intense, seem like ashes compared to your sweetness. 

I love you. Truly, deeply, perhaps even madly. 

Your Tom.*

I went to open the door, caught up in emotion to go find him, he had to still be in the hotel somewhere, probably in the lobby, that I didn't even think that I was still in my pajamas, and I hadn't even brushed my hair yet.

But he was there. In the hallway, on the other side, patiently waiting. He took one look at the tear tracks on my face and the gentle smile that rested there stretched into a great, beaming grin.

"You read my letter," he said. My only answer was to yank him into the room, and into my arms.

We stood there, arms around each other. It took me a moment to realize he was sweaty, dressed in his track pants and a hoodie, and he'd just come from a run. His hair was still slightly damp from perspiration. He had a sharp odor to him, but not unpleasant. Musky, heedy, and it filled my entire olfactory senses and embedded itself there, burning him into me in a way he hadn't been previously. 

"God, you're still warm," he said with a slight groan, pulling away after a few moments. He took a look at me and chuckled. "You look so adorable."

I reached up, touched my hair, realized it was still mussed and tangled from a heavy night's sleep. I blushed, although it honestly didn't bother me much for him to see me in such a state. I started to comb it down, but he stopped me.

"Can I?" he asked, his voice low and husky. I shrugged, but went into the bedroom and got him my brush. I started to turn, but he stopped me. "No, right there is good," he said.

"You don't want to at least sit?" I asked.

He shook his head, and his eyes, I realized, were slightly glassy. His long arms went loosely around me, and he ran the brush through my tangled locks, which easily smoothed out.

"You have very fine hair," he observed.

"Mmm...you've played with it enough," I reminded him.

"But your tangles just fall out. Hardly anything sticks."

"I wash every other day, use conditioner...if I go to bed with my hair wet, in the morning I hardly have to brush it at all. Although sometimes it's not entirely dry."

"Eventually," he mused, "when you come with me to an event, a premiere or something, I'm going to get into a fight with your stylists when they try to load your hair up with product to get it into whatever contorted position they're going to insist you need."

Truthfully, I had been concentrating on his hands, running the brush through my hair, smoothing the locks in its wake -- but at these particular words, I opened my eyes and looked up at him.

"Eventually," I echoed. "When would eventually be?"

He shifted, gazing down at me with his mouth in a lopsided grin. "Would July be too soon?"

It was half way through May. July was, at minimum, six weeks away. Sure, I'd been out with Tom before, but this would be official. 

"Marvel wants me at one of their premieres in July," Tom explained. "We decided to make a big thing over it, Ben will be there, you know, because of Dr. Strange, and there's going to be some others from the Avengers, you've met most of them...and I wanted to take you." He lowered his arms, looked at me steadily. "It won't be about me, but I thought it would be a good dry run for when...well, *I Saw The Light* is coming in September and they're already talking about pushing for an Oscar campaign. And...and I wanted to know if you'd be there. When you can, of course. I realize it's a lot of exposure..."

"A lot of pressure on you," I said. 

He nodded. "This Marvel thing would be more fun than work, but later it would be more work, and I can hear you worrying you'd be a distraction, but honestly, it would mean a lot to me." He looked down, his hands fiddling with my brush. "I could use you to hold my hand."

I cracked a grin. "You showing up with your girlfriend would get you a lot of exposure," I pointed out. "Confirm a lot of rumors."

"That isn't why," he said, frowning. "You know, I may seem very cool under pressure, but most of it is an act. And you being with me...it would help."

"I didn't mean--" I fumbled, then started over. "I only meant that you being off the market...I don't want to be responsible for damaging your appeal."

Tom shook his head. "We've been over this. We all have to grow up. I'm not in this for a legion of adoring female fans. Playing Hank could -- is -- going to push me forward into a new realm and while it's all I've wanted it also scares the shit out of me. I want you there for me. I don't care what anyone else thinks...just you."

I nodded. "Of course I'll go, if you want me."

"Of course I want you." He smiled, let me lead him over to the couch, where I perched on the arm as he sat among the cushions. I had turned toward him, my feet tucked under his thigh -- we had discovered long ago that sitting on his lap seemed like a good idea, but he was very slender and I was very wide, and after only a few minutes I would start to fidget -- sitting on his legs was something like sitting on a pair of poles, and eventually became, honest to God, uncomfortable -- and that would lead to all kinds of problems. At it as, he was so tall it was easy for me to reach him and pull him closer when the moments came, even in that position, although with the way his hands traveled up and down my calves, I began to wonder if we needed to consider another arrangement. It was a matter of time before he went for my ankles and feet, and at that point I was doomed.

He was gazing at me with such clear adoration, and yet wanted to keep a little bit of room between us -- I couldn't blame him, as even being in the same room with him as with a bed was yanking on my defense mechanisms. 

"So you aren't angry with me?" he asked.

I smiled. "Of course not. But I have to admit, I am a little nervous. I mean, I want to know your past, I do, and I should, and you should feel safe telling me those things. All the same, it just reminds me...about our differences. And I worry about those differences putting a wedge between us."

He nodded. "Over these last months...I've been surprised by us, Michelle. I've been surprised by how powerful it's been. And how I've wanted to be better, to rise to the occasion. Not that I've been a cad, not like that one time...but I sort of feel, now, that I should have...like all this time, I'd been waiting for this. Preparing for this." He squeezed my calf right below my knee, which his hand was practically wrapped around. "And I feel like I haven't lived up to it. Like I...I don't know, like I haven't respected you. Even before I knew you."

"Savage Garden," I said.

"What?"

"That song by Savage Garden," I explained. "The one that goes, 'I think I loved you before I met you.'"

He snapped his fingers. "Yes, I remember that one. Mixed into all the INXS."

"What can I say, I'm a 90's girl." I ran my hand through his curls. Tomorrow they would be much shorter. "But you can't beat yourself up, Tom. I'm not going to. Even if something you tell me makes me sad, for a bit, it's your attitude now that's important. I mean, maybe I haven't been sexually experienced, but I do know what it's like to make mistakes, and not think they're mistakes at the time. To make choices you look back on and shake your head and wonder why you were so...stupid, I guess. At least for me. Foolish. Crazy. Whatever. At the time they didn't seem that way. Or you didn't want to see them that way. I heard a priest say sometimes when we sin, it's not because we're trying to do evil, but because we think we're trying to gain some good. Unfortunately it's not the right good, or it's not really good at all, we just think it is. We're wounded creatures. We just don't always make the right choices, no matter how we view them later. We have to forgive ourselves and let it go."

At some point in my speech, Tom had closed his eyes and his face had tilted down, and then finally he raised his hand and stopped my motion through the curls on the back of his head. 

"Sorry, I'm losing my ability to concentrate," he said, cracking one eye open at me, almost like a wink. 

I lowered my hand with a blushing grin. "Sorry."

"Don't be. I want to hear you, though. You just don't realize how much you give me, Michelle. You fill in all the parts of me that were brittle and unsteady, and make them stronger."

My grin widened. "How romantic. You should have put that in your letter."

He tugged on my fingers in slight reprimand. "I only get that flowery when I'm writing--"

"Oh, I've heard you get flowery when you're talking, and making all the ladies swoon. I wonder how much a tabloid would pay me for Tom Hiddleston's love letter. I'd be able to pay off some debt--"

He tugged harder, pulling me closer to him. "You mock me," he said with a scowl, but I could see his eyes sparkling. "Torment me."

"Tease you," I added with an arched eyebrow. "Knock the wind from your sails--"

"You are the wind--"

"Oh, please, don't," I groaned. "Next thing you'll break into Beth Midler's 'Wind Beneath My Wings.'"

"Now you're just being cruel," he sighed. "When all I've done is love you."

I softened, my hands going to his cheeks and pulling his face closer so I could kiss his forehead. He tilted his head so that my kiss wound up sliding down the bridge of his nose. 

"Tell you what," I whispered, pressing my forehead against his. "I'll tell you one thing I love about you. And you can tell me one thing you love about me. And if anything I say is mocking or teasing or anything like that, I'll make it up in my next turn by telling you two things."

"And if I say anything that mocks or teases you?" he murmured back. 

I shrugged. "I'll probably just slap you. But never on your pretty face." I stroked one cheek. 

"Pretty?" His expression was mildly affronted.

"Was that mocking? Because you are extremely pretty." I slid my finger down the same bridge I had just kissed. "All your features are so nicely balanced. High cheekbones, bright eyes--" My finger continued across his cheeks, just under his eye. "Slender neck--"

He grasped my hand before my finger could go that way. "Okay, that's three," he said, mildly breathless. "My turn. I think about your mouth. All the time."

"My mouth?"

"When you're talking. When you're smiling. It's the first thing I think of when I picture you. That and your eyes, but I'm only allowed one. When you wear lipstick or anything that draws attention to them I feel like I've just hit puberty and I am absolutely in no way in control of my body."

Now that he'd said it, I suddenly became utterly self-conscious of my mouth. I tried so hard not to bite my lip but it felt impossible not to do so. "So I meant your face as one thing before, but if we're going to count all the different parts as individuals, I am very fond of your nose."

"My nose?" he giggled as I tapped the tip.

I nodded, still biting my lip. "Especially when you rub it against me. When it presses in my cheek when you kiss me. When it slides along my jaw or rubs against mine."

"Hmmm..." He narrowed his eyes, now biting his lip. "I love how soft your face is. All of your skin, really, but I've only gotten to kiss you above the neck. I admit I sometimes kiss your cheeks just because I want to feel your skin under my lips."

"I suspected," I said with a wink. "You already know how I love your hands."

He chuckled, entwining the objects of mention with mine. "Oh, yes, that's one of my absolute favorite memories. You lying in that bed as they were going to wheel you away, telling me you loved me for the first time...whenever I get lonely that one comes to mind very quickly."

I shook my head, also chuckling. "Silly, it's still my turn. But your hands...and these veins." I traced them with my fingers, sliding along his wrist and toward his forearm. "How they pop out."

He frowned. "Really."

"Oh my God, it's incredibly sexy," I muttered, following the vein to where it ended by the bend of his arm. "And the bone that sticks out from your wrist."

"Now you're just being silly," he shook his head. "That bony wrist of mine...makes me feel like a beanpole. Makes me think I'm gawky."

"I liked you when you were gawky," I reminded him. I was delighted to see a light shade of pink start to spread over his cheeks as I went on. "Now that you're all buff, this bone reminds me you're still the same man I crushed on all those years ago."

He sighed. "I love how you speak your mind," he said. "Even then...how brave you were. I get so uptight over any kind of confrontation, and even when I manage it I always come across as too nice or too harsh, I can never find the right balance, but you just go straight down the middle, and somehow do it without offending anyone--"

I laughed, a bit loudly. It was more like a, "HA!" "Oh Tom, you haven't spent enough time around me in the real world. We've been in this little bubble, where we usually only see the best of each other. I guarantee you that I offend people, all the time. Some people have really thin skins, true, but sometimes I just don't think before I speak."

A shadow flittered over his face. "Well...I'm sure it's never on purpose," he said, the shadow passing and his smile returning.

"What is it?" I asked. 

"I just..." The shadow returned in his frown. "You're right, we do live in this little bubble. I mean, the two months I was in L.A. were like a strange summer -- in winter, yes, but L.A. winters are more pleasant that British summers. And you're here for another week and a half...and then we're going to go back to our lives and they're just so far apart, and I can't...I can't deal with that."

*I can't.* I swallowed, ready to put my foot in my mouth. "Is that what you were talking about? That afternoon, when I feel asleep? When I woke up I thought I heard you whispered, 'I can't,' over and over, but I thought maybe I was dreaming."

He stared at me as I spoke, a little pale. Then he nodded. "Yes. We were just so cozy and I was thinking about how I wanted you around all the time and how I was going to have to give you up again, the time was going to pass too quickly and...I just can't deal with being apart from you like I was. And I want to do something about it but I'm worried you won't let me."

"What do you want to do?" I asked.

"Well..." he fiddled with the fingers of the hand that was still entwined with mine. "I was thinking about getting a permanent residence in L.A."

I absorbed this news. "You're going to move from London?" 

"Not...permanently. But I want to spend more time in L.A., and it wouldn't necessarily be an outlandish thing for me to do, not with all the work lined up, and having meeting and getting involved with projects would be easier. And then you and I could have a relationship like normal people -- at least more of it than we're getting now."

I nodded. "Well, we're still pretty deep into the infatuation stage," I pointed out. 

He sighed. "I know. But I have to tell you, I've been in relationships before, and I've rarely been this attached."

"But can you...afford it?" I blurted. "Being in two places...having to keep two homes?"

"My family and friends usually help out here when I'm gone," he said. "And in L.A...you could help, if you wanted. I mean, just pop into the place on your days off, if I'm not there. It's not the money I'm concerned about, I've been pretty frugal..." He trailed off, his cheeks blushing much darker than they had before.

"And?" I pressed.

"Well, it wouldn't be anything grand or fancy...I mean...I wouldn't be there permanently...what with...with the future in mind..." He could hardly look at me. Then he lifted his shoulders and raised his chin to meet my eyes squarely, as if he'd found some sudden resolve. "I mean, if we meant what we said about this being serious, that implies permanence. And a permanent future relationship...we will talk about...at some point."

"Marriage," I said, although it was, admittedly, extremely soft, as if we were saying Voldemort's name.

He nodded, his face brightening just a bit. "Eventually. When...the time is right. What I'm saying is, whatever place I got could just be temporary, until more permanent arrangements are made for the future. So as a temporary situation, I'm fine with it."

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay," I said again, a bit louder, this time with a nod. 

"Yeah?" His face was getting even brighter, the sun coming out behind clouds.

"Yeah," I smiled back.


End file.
